


I'm creeping in your heart, babe

by ZeroMonster



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Ghost Hunters, Ghosts, Haunting, M/M, horror and humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 00:39:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11116272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeroMonster/pseuds/ZeroMonster
Summary: The rules for ghost-hunting are simple enough:- You find the haunted place.- You lure the ghost to come out.- You run them through with a six-inch silver dagger with magickal properties.That's pretty much it.





	I'm creeping in your heart, babe

**Author's Note:**

> This is veeery loosely based on Anna dressed in blood by Kendare Blake.  
> Title from Monster by Exo.  
> Also, this is late for barricade day.

  _“Well you think your town is pretty boring_

_Come and spend a day with me_

_I am asking real politely I'm afraid to be alone”_

–Ghost town by The Vaccines.

 

The rules for ghost-hunting are simple enough:

\- You find the haunted place.

\- You lure the ghost to come out.

\- You run them through with a six-inch silver dagger with magickal properties.

That's pretty much it.

The only problem that comes up is when you don't know what kind of ghost you're dealing with.

Or when stupid teenagers happen to be in the same haunted place as you and the evil spirit you're trying to kill. Grantaire knows his ghosts, so the former is rarely a problem. The latter, though…

“Get up. That's right, you, with the face. GET UP.”

The kid looks up at him from the floor, where Grantaire saw him fall face-first. The boy is all wild eyes, dark spiky hair and purple pajamas. Great, his hunting's been crashed by teens on a slumber party. He names this boy P.P. in his mind.

Grantaire inspects their surroundings. The yellow light from the street lamps leaks through the ceiling-to-floor windows typical of gyms, the exercise machines sprout from the shadows giving them the feeling they’re sentient. A place like this should look mundane, dull. But, at 2:40 a.m. without all the people usually filling it, it's lost its purpose. Empty like this it feels unsettling, alien.

Another boy comes running down the hall, this one with a baseball bat (initials: B.B.) a lot of good that’s going to do him. B.B screams over his shoulder, “Dorian! Hurry the fuck up!” A third kid rushes to join them, screaming and with a ghost in town. Dorian's wearing a Jack Daniel’s muscle tee. Grantaire re-names him D.D. Because he looks like a Douche. 

The ghost's more interesting. He's a tall man with dark hair, his skin, once dark brown, is now tainted by dead. If you look down you can see he's not touching the floor.

“What're you doing, idiot? Stand up! We have to get out!” D.D. snaps at his friend on the floor and P.P. struggles to his feet, apparently deciding he's not done with life yet. “Who the fuck are you?” That bit directed at Grantaire.

B.B. just noticing they're not alone anymore, raises his bat over Grantaire's head, “Whoa, whoa, easy, man! I'm not a fucking ghost!” But it's alright, because he never gets to bring it down - It’s alright only for the spacetime of a heartbeat.

At first glance, you could mistake him for human. But even if you had never seen a ghost before, you'd probably be able to tell by the fear aura that it's radiating from him, by the smell that humans recognize even if they’ve never encountered it before, by the way dark veins run underneath the skin. And if all that fails, the way his fingers curl around the bat and snap it in two it's a dead given (no pun intended).

In a swift move Grantaire draws out his athame from its scabbard at his thigh. Something in his chest jumps as the blade flashes when it catches a stray ray of moonlight, he grips the leather handle, relishing in the familiarity of the act.

“Teenagers,” He hisses, like it's the worst insult on earth. 

“What's that thing?” P.P whines.

“It's a ghost, you lazy douche clown. A mumiai.” Grantaire murmurs, annoyed.

The ghost glares at them and jabs a long, skinny finger at them. “Lazy! That's exactly what you all are! Bet you have never lift a finger in your life!” Then it lunges at them.

Grantaire manages to put himself between the mumiai and the other boys, he blocks the attack with his forearms and tries to shake the spectre off. He backs away, trying to find an opening to counterattack. Then, a stationary bicycle smashes against his back. He's in the floor in no time -  _like an_ _amateur_.

The word poltergeist is there somewhere in back of his mind but it gets drowned out by screaming and the sound of a lot of property damage. He needs to get those kids out of here. He heaves a sigh and stands up.

“Hey, idiots! Door's this way!” He keeps the doors open while the three boys rush through it and when the ghost's about to follow, he screams “Look! That guy over there's just lying on the lifting bench! He's not even warming up… God, I think he's sleeping!”

It works. The ghost whips around looking for the poor imaginary lazy bastard. Grantaire turns and starts running like his life depends on it. Which, you know. He catches up with the others and an inhuman noise tears its way through the building. He runs faster. 

A loud crash makes them hesitate and a split of second later, objets start falling over them: gloves and belts, jumping ropes, _weights_. Grantaire tears open a storage closet door and shoves the fuckers inside. As the door closes, something collides against it with a loud thump. When he can breathe again, he looks up at the others. The ghost keeps ranting about those lazy little shits - thump, thump, thump.

“He just keeps saying that! Why!” P.P sounds seconds away from a break down.

“This is all your fault dickhead! I swear to fuck Dorian, if I die here, I'm coming back to haunt your ass!” B.B. is probably going to be fine.

Before D.D can open his mouth and make more of a dick out of himself, Grantaire decides to answer P.P. “It's a type of Indian ghost. Well known for their persecution of the lazy.” Grantaire says as he works his neck. “Which is why it choose a gym to haunt of all places. Lazy people stand out.” 

“Right, I don't know who you are or how you know that -  but you have to get us out of here,” P.P  begs.

And because he's an asshole, he says, “Your little sleepover got a little wild? You were playing chicken? _Hey, dude you know what'd be awesome? Trespassing and near-death experiences, am I right?_ ”

They at least have the decency to look sheepish before switching back to shaken. “We didn't think the stories were true, you know… that's what they're… stories.”

He takes a look at the boys in front of him. They look terrified. 

Grantaire thinks it's just fair. After all, teenagers are one of the most terrifying things in the non-supernatural world. He things he's kind of witnessing karma in action, the goddess Nemesis righting some wrongs, the balance of nature - _t_ _hump_.

“Oh, shit!” The door's coming down any second now. He shoves the boys against the far wall and draws his athame again.

“How is it he can't just phase through it?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes when he notices they actually are waiting for him to answer, "Ghosts need energy like all of us, they _are_ energy, though not in your ghost-cliché kind of way. This one just spent a lot of energy ruining my lower back, it's going be a while until it can do something fancy. Doesn't matter, let's get out of here children,” he says, and P.P. looks at him outrageously.

“You're our age!” That's -  that's not true, but that's not the _point_. All that hormones probably messed with P.P's brain, mixing up his priorities along his brain chemistry because there's a ghost _right_ _there_.

Grantaire turns to face the door and when it surrenders to the ghost's superhuman strength, he's ready. The mumiai grins at them. Close knife combat was drilled into him when he was little more than a child, their small location won't be a problem.

The ghosts goes for his neck, Grantaire ducks, cuts his shin and dodges back. Oil-like liquid starts pouring from the slice. The mumiai hisses and Grantaire takes advantage of the distraction to thrust his hand out and bring the weapon straight down on the ghost's chest, continuing to drag the knife down through his opponent's body. The ghost shrieks and shivers violently until its body is consumed by the thick, black 'blood'.

Grantaire gives a long exhale and rests his hands on his knees, blinks, the blood isn't there anymore. He puts his blade away. He hears a low whine behind him. “Let's get out of here.” He says without looking back.

 ~✡~

He arrives home when the sun's coming out. Their cat, Pluto, greets him with a wary look, sitting on the outside of a windowsill. When Grantaire opens the door, it hurries inside almost tripping him. He's too tired to even get angry.

There's a routine for a night (or morning) after a hunting. Grantaire undoes his thigh sheath and leaves it on the kitchen counter. He washes his face right there on the kitchen sink and drinks a cup of water. He leans on the counter and enjoys the warm of the sun through the open window, his lower back is still sore and he's already half dea -  hmm, asleep on his feet.

The cat fusses at him and makes him open his eyes. He half heartedly glares at it. His mother loves Pluto, and having a cat is extremely helpful in their business, but that doesn't mean they have to like each other. Still, Grantaire feeds it and after, murmurs, “Freaking cat,” so it doesn't get ideas.

He climbs the stairs to his room mindful of the many boxes on the steps that contain from kitchen appliances to wiccan magickal tools. They're moving again.

He's just awake enough to ditch his shoes somewhere before crashing on his bed. Sleep takes him instantly. Hours later, he wakes to his mother's yell from the kitchen, “Grantaire! Breakfast's ready!”

He groans and tosses in the bed, not having the least intention to wake up, but minutes later his stomach growls and he's forced to leave his bed. He takes a quick shower and enters the kitchen with still damp hair. He inherited his black curls from his mother, who is standing by the counter pouring milk in a glass with one hand and swirling water in a bowl with a green branch with the other.

“I was going to do that,” he says softly.

“I don't mind,” she says, and proceeds to pour the water on a silver chalice.   

“Here, let me.” Grantaire takes the chalice from his mom and she beams at him, amused and fond. She knows why he does it.

His mom is a wicca; she married his father, a ghost hunter, when she was fairly young. Many of Grantaire's early memories involve his mother sitting on varying surfaces devouring books with old, charming, colorful covers and knitting flowers in different arrangements.  

He didn't learn to read with those books but his parents never tried to hide them from him, it was just part of their lives. So when Grantaire was young, he found a passage in one of his mom's books:

“ _The athame is a double edged dagger used by wiccans and sorcerers. It redirects the sorcerer’s magic and it’s used to control magickal energies or entities during rituals. It is said that the power of an athame grows each time it is used._ _In Wicca Witchcraft, the athame is ritually interchangeable with the sword, a weapon also male and phallic._

 _...The chalice (cup, goblet) symbolizes the feminine aspect of the rituals, and is quite obviously related to the water element. The chalice is filled with blessed water which is used in rituals and ceremonies for blessings on behalf of the Goddess…_ ”

So basically, he didn't understand a word of it, but he asked his mother what it meant. Years later it hit him that the fact that the athame was inherently male because it was _phallic_ was fucking stupid, and since then he carried the chalice, a chore previously left to his mother, in any ritual they performed.

Back to the present, his mother grabs his athame and guides them to the kitchen sink where Grantaire pours the water over the blade and when it's done his mother stabs the knife onto a big bowl of coarse salt.   

“You should really cleanse it every time you use it.” She says.

“I _was_ going to do it.” He whines. 

“Just like you were going to pack your art supplies,” she rolls her eyes. He tries not to wince, he totally forgot.

“So…” They sit and start eating their breakfast, his mother feeds Pluto little pieces of pancake under the table. “Ready for California?”

She nods, “I already updated the address on the online site.” His mother runs an online shop, she sells homemade candles, incense, protective necklaces and bouquets of herbs for simple spells. “You ready for school?”

He shrugs, his mother sighs. “You know we don't have to move, right?” 

“California's crawling with ghosts, _of course_ we have to go there.” He tries to laugh it off. He purposely ignores the sad look his mother gives him. 

He doesn't _want_ to drag her all over the country chasing evil spirits for the rest of their lives. But he's a minor and she loves him too much. And really, what else would they do? 

The next day, they throw their 'work tools' on the trunk of their car and leave with the moving company van following. They don't tell anyone.

 ~✡~ 

From what Grantaire can gather, Bastille Collegiate is just like any other high school: rows of grey lockers, colorful banners with the legend ‘Go tigers!’, a maze of classrooms and an interminable sea of faces. Though, whose idea was to name a school after a prison? 

He can almost feel the buzz of excitement and uneasiness distinct of the first day of classes. He can definitely hear it: girls screaming in the hallways hugging their friends and complementing them on their new haircuts, football players establishing their dominance with roaring laughter, people greeting each other like it’s been years since they last saw each other and not just summer. Buzz, buzz, buzz.

A hive. 

But he's only looking for one bee.

“Hey man, you know where classroom 309 is?” A boy asks from behind him and Grantaire turns to face him.

“Sorry, I'm new.” Grantaire shrugs.

The boy sighs. “Damn. Why don't they put letters to this thing.” The boy frowns down at his schedule.

“309 is in the block to your right, third floor. It's the only one they don’t use letters for,” says a girl just a little ahead of them, as she closes her locker.

“Thanks! Uhm…”

“Cosette,” says the girl. “I'm on the welcome committee. I keep telling them it's confusing.” She offers them her hand. _She offers them her hand!_ Who is this girl?

The other boy takes her hand eagerly. “Well, thanks Cosette.” And then sprints to his classroom. Grantaire raises an eyebrow, he probably won't wash that hand ever again. 

“So I heard you're new?” She asks.

“Huh?” Oh, right. “Yeah, just moved here.”

“You need help finding your way?”

“I think I'll be okay. Thanks, Cosette.”

“No problem, uhm.”

“Grantaire.”

“No problem, Grantaire.” She smiles at him as she turns to leave. Her smile is bright, like her almond-shaped eyes and her glitter-covered tennis... wait a minute, did she say welcome committee?

When he’s functional again (thanks for nothing coffee) she’s already gone. The bell rings and he just shakes his head at himself, he'll have to find her latter. For now, he's happy with his progress. He found the Queen Bee.

Or how he prefers to call them: Oracle, because he's a slut for Batman comics.

Almost as soon as Grantaire inherited the family business, he understood that fast and trustworthy information was as indispensable as air to survive. There were just too much rumours, most of them trash, he needed someone to filter the stories and the details. Mostly, he got the leads from his father's old contacts, but there was only too much they could do from the other side of the country. He needed a closer source of information, and nothing escapes the most popular girl at school.

On lunch break he checks his emails and scrolls down to the one he cares about. It's from a contact in Chicago, not one of his father's, he found this one himself. The kid found himself on a nasty situation including a ghost, a weathervane and a jar of pickles.

Anyway, the email describes a case of residual haunting on a nearby stable. Usually, he doesn't bother with residual haunting but while he prioritizes other cases and finds Cosette again, decides to investigate this one after school.

 ~✡~

He drives twenty minutes to the Mountreuil Riding Horse Club. Despite its fancy name, the arena and the stable seem modest enough, the club probably runs on donations. According to his contact (fine, _Gary_ , but come on!) the haunting takes place in the stable after the sun goes down. He wants to do some reconnaissance first, so he approaches the stable but a man spots him before he even gets close.

“Hey! can I help you, son?” The man asks as he approaches Grantaire.

“Uhm, I was just - I just moved here, I just want some information.”

“Of course, welcome! I'm Lamarque, I'm one of the teachers here. What's your name?”

“Grantaire.”

“It's a pleasure, Grantaire. I really want to talk more, but I'm just in the middle of a class. Let me introduce you to one of our senior riders, he's grooming his horse at the stable.”

Since that works for Grantaire, he just nods and follows Lamarque to where several horses are boarded.

“Enjolras!” Calls Lamarque. “Could you please talk to Grantaire here? He's interested in joining.”

A boy in horse riding clothes looks up from where he's brushing a tall, beautiful, white horse. He puts down the brush and joins them. Lamarque puts a hand on Grantaire's shoulder in parting but he doesn't really notice because Enjolras is… is ( _But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!_ )

Enjolras takes off his black jacket, leaving him in a white, slightly wet shirt. Grantaire's mouth goes dry. Enjolras nods at him. “Hi, sorry if I'm a little dirty.” Grantaire does _not_ think about the obvious joke. “I just had practice.” Enjolras blond curls are a little flattened against his forehead with sweat and he's a little flushed too, a smile tugs at Grantaire's lips.

He shakes himself and reminds himself that he’s here for work. “It's fine.” He rasps, looking away from Enjolras, and tries to examine the stable.

The building is large, with a wooden door for singular stalls and a perch built on each door, where a lot of equipment for both the riders and the horses is draped over. The floor is of a grey stone and the ceiling is divided by long lights, like the ones at school.  On the farthest wall there's a poster: ‘Coming soon. Individual dressage championships.’

Also, Enjolras is talking to him.

“Sorry, what?”

A small frown forms between Enjolras' brows. “I asked if you know what activity you would like to join.”

“Uhm… dressage.” It comes out like a question.

“Really?” Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, why? Something wrong with it?” And that comes out more aggressive than he intended.

“No, of course not, it's just dressage is kind of passive for me.” Enjolras shrugs.

“Really? What do you do?”

“Jumping.”

Grantaire smirks. “Yeah, I can imagine that. Tell me about Jumping.”

Enjolras dives into an explanation about obstacles and heights but Grantaire just half hears him. On one of the walls, next to a large window, is a metal box where Grantaire supposes, are the power controls. _The lights flicker a lot_ , the email said.

“Grantaire?”

“Yeah, uhm, that sounds great, really great, are those the light switches?”

“What?”

“Yeah, of course they are, that's all of them?”

“What? I mean, yeah, but what does that - ”

“Can we see them?”

“No.”

“Ok, but what if we do anyway?”

Grantaire goes over to them and opens the metal door since there's no padlock.

“Wait, you can't do that.”

“Calm down, it wasn't even locked.”

He checks the wires and fuses. They seem fine, not obviously broken or damaged in other way.

“You know, the electrical engineering club meets mondays and wednesdays at school.” Enjolras says, seemingly mildly, which sets sirens off in Grantaire's head. He closes the panel's door gently and turns to look at the blond.

“Ok, sorry, I'm done.”

“Really? Because, it's not like I could be doing better things right now.” Heavy on the sarcasm.

“Wow, hey - ”

“No one would appreciate it if you break something. So, if that's all, stop wasting my time.” He's already half turned towards his horse.

“Fine, god, you don't have to be a jerk about it. I'll leave you alone.” He walks out of the stable without another word, Enjolras lets him. Residual haunting is _so_ not worth this.

 ~✡~

He comes back when it's already closed, partially because he can't sleep. Everything seems bigger, the tracks on the arena look like they were made by a much larger animal than a horse. The trees that surround him are dark blue and the outlines of the foliage mimic birds huddled together, the slivers of light between leaves are their eyes.

The stable door is locked but he makes a quick job of it. He gets in slowly, not knowing how the horses will react, or if the haunting is on already. It's even darker inside. He finds the energy controls by memory and switches the lights on. Most of the horses are sleeping, one or two are awake and alert. The white horse stands gingerly and looks around, ignoring Grantaire, surely looking for it's better looking human. In any case, there's nothing gruesome or even spooky going on. Only the white horse panting and neighing at him. It clearly doesn't like him.

“Oh, not you too.” He says. He's tired so he goes around the stable trying to find a chair or something, the horse's still making distressed noises and some other horses join in. Except. It's not Grantaire they’re reacting to.

The lights go out. On. Out. On.

Yeah, that's more like it.

His athame is in his hand before anything else happens. It starts slowly, as a blob, as a stain in the reality fabric. The horses start banging violently on their doors and the blob takes a definite shape.

It's a large grey coat, worn and old fashioned. Inside the coat is a man: caucasian, the bags under his eyes are an impressively dark purple, like two gaps on the face. He's looking through one of the windows and he looks sick with fear.

A ghost doesn't have a reflection, but Grantaire can imagine this man, moments before his death, seeing something more than his own dull image on the glass. _Through_ the glass.

The ghost recoils violently away from the window, he glances at the door and freezes. The door is closed, but Grantaire feels, the other man doesn't see that. The lights go out one last time. The man lunges as to close the door to fend off whatever it's on the other side that's come to get him and then turns around, the man chokes on a scream. And Grantaire sees it: with the lights out, the man could barely see through the window, and he saw his murderer approaching him. Except, the background of that chilling image was not visible, what the man saw was not on the other side. It was already inside, and it was the reflection of what was behind him. 

Sometimes Grantaire doesn't enjoy this job. At the end of the night, he puts the ghost out of its misery, he pats the white horse to calm it down on his way out.


End file.
